


the line

by laedymoonarchive



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26264062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laedymoonarchive/pseuds/laedymoonarchive
Summary: --- this is a repost of a fic originally published on my tumblr. i no longer use it and am slowly getting rid of my posts, so everything i've written is being archived here ---summary: roger’s your best mate, but he sure doesn’t fuckin’ act like itwarnings: smut, angst, bisexual reader, angry and rough sex, unprotected sex, suggestions of cheating, swearing, alcoholwordcount: 1.8k
Relationships: Roger Taylor (Queen)/Reader
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \--- this is a repost of a fic originally published on my tumblr. i no longer use it and am slowly getting rid of my posts, so everything i've written is being archived here ---
> 
> summary: roger’s your best mate, but he sure doesn’t fuckin’ act like it
> 
> warnings: smut, angst, bisexual reader, angry and rough sex, unprotected sex, suggestions of cheating, swearing, alcohol
> 
> wordcount: 1.8k

it’s an objective (and widely recognised) fact that roger can be a massive prick when he’s in the mood, and to be fair, so can you.

you’re not denying that you wind him up just as much as he does you, that you’re equally as responsible for the competitive back and forth that dominates your friendship.

christ, even the way you met the boy was a knocking of horns, both of you vying for the attention of the same girl over the imperial bar. you’d ended up letting her go, spending the night locked in pissing competition with the cocky blonde instead. taking far more shots than was wise, sneaking swigs of whiskey when the bartenders back was turned, brashly initiating quick snogs with anyone remotely fitting your respective types. you’d awoken the next morning with a buggering headache, and a rare sort of kinship with your classmate.

since then, not much has changed.

your bond has never been sweet like it is with john, kind like it is with brian, lovely like it is with freddie. it’s always been fiery. competitive. the embodiment of love, hate. and perhaps a little toxic, at times —again, your fault as much as his. like you said, you can both be complete wankers where the other’s concerned.

but this time, even with all that context, you’re convinced rogers gone too far.

 _surely he’s not enough of an idiot to come over here._ you slam an empty shot glass down on the bar without taking your eyes off the fast-approaching blonde.

roger throws his hands up in surrender before he even reaches you. _guess he is a bloody idiot, then._ “y/n-”

you cut him off before he can get started. “my fucking girlfriend, roger.” you hiss.

roger toys with a string on his blazer, muttering a feeble response. “she’s not your girlfriend.”

“as of last week you tosser.” you scoff.

“i was pissed, alright. i feel bloody shit about it.” _up go the hands_.

“do you, now?” you snarl. “you’re forgiven.”

“i’m not asking to be forgiven.”

“good. cause you’ll be fuckin’ disappointed.”

“there were two of us, you know? i don’t see you going off at her.”

_is he having you on?_

“she’s not my best mate!” you yell incredulously, temper flaring. “that’s why i ended it; i expect that shit of her. christ, you’re the one i told all this before we broke up.”

“i know, love. fuck, i’m sorry.” he’s got that look on his face, the one you and the boys have dubbed the _kicked puppy_. adopted many a time, used to charm his way back into the good books of many a girlfriend, many a professor and many a quick shag.

it’s not going to work on you. “shove your apology up your arse, rog.” you snort. “empty fucking words.”

“scuse me?”

“sorry doesn’t mean a bloody thing to you. bet you told brian _sorry_ after you snogged the girl he was chatting up last weekend? bet you told tim _sorry_ after you shagged his sister?” a slightly low blow. a nerve you know you probably shouldn’t hit. _oh fucking well_.

“shut the fuck up, y/n.” rogers apologetic facade begins to fade. “before you say something you regret.”

 _keep pushing._ “it’s the truth though, isn’t it?”

“i never shagged my mates sister, and you fuckin’ know it.” he _growls_.

“can’t keep track of all your misdeeds, actually.”

“christ, you’re a prick.”

“least i didn’t _prick_ my mates girlfriend.”

“she’s not your girlfriend.” he exhales through his teeth.

“yeah, no thanks to blonde twinks like you.”

roger throws his hands up to his hair, looking like he’s about to yank out a handful.

fuck, you hate him right now. hate his flushed fucking cheeks and bitten, bruised lips and the crescent-moon shaped nail marks in his palms. hate the silver rings on his elegant fingers and his blue eyes flashing navy.

“jesus, i want to knock you off that fucking high horse.” he mutters.

“what was that?”

“you’re so holier than bloody thou. you forgetting i know your flatmates boyfriend fingered you last year? least you weren’t still dating lily when i shagged her.”

your cheeks flame. he’s not wrong, the bastard. bringing up that stupid, drunken, _out of character_ fumble you’ve spent weeks crying over. to him, mind you.

“fuck you.” you spit.

“just evening the score.”

“i never did it to you though rog, did i? i wouldn’t.”

“you just haven’t had the opportunity yet.”

 _ouch_. “bullshit.”

“is it? think i didn’t catch you eyeing off the girl i was with last week?”

the anger starts to turn black and toxic, prickling your skin. “now what _was_ her name? can you remember, rog?”

“don’t you fucking start.” roger’s tone adopts a new edge of warning.

“crystal? or was it cheryl-“

“hypocrite. calling me some kind of slut.”

you throw your head back, letting out a sarcastic laugh. “you think i am?”

 _“i know you are.”_ roger fixes his gaze on you unmercifully. and god, _you hate_ how it makes you squirm. you wish you could stop your brain from processing the details it is, focus only on your anger. you wish it would ignore the bobbing of roger’s adam’s apple in his hickey-decorated throat, his smell of vinyl and smoke and sweet perfume — _why does he smell nice, right now?—_ the agonising _hotness_ of his steely, fervent visage.

he continues when you don’t speak.

“i know you are, because even though you’ve probably never been more pissed at me in your life.” he pauses for a second. scans your eyes with his shrewd gaze. says his next sentence with measure. “you’d still let me turn you around a fuck you against this bar.”

you hate being speechless. it happens once in a blue moon. but that’s what roger’s rendered you. he’s put the desire you haven’t let yourself consider right before you.

“not here.” is all you manage. “bathroom.”

\- - - - - - - - -

you slam the wanker against the wall with force the second the door swings closed, gripping handfuls of his jacket in your hands as you kiss him with bruising force.

“get your cock out.” you pant, fumbling at his belt.

“desperate for me, aren’t you?” he smirks.

 _two can play at that fuckin’ game._ you palm at roger’s cock in retaliation, vindicated as he bucks into your palm with a whine. “like that?” you simper.

“piss off.” roger clears his throat. he finally releases his cock from its restraints, already hard and fuck, _bigger than you expected._

he turns you around at the waist, hiking your skirt above your hips bones and your knickers down your thighs so he can tease at your slick folds with his tip.

you brace your arms on the grimy, graffiti covered tiles. “fuck me already, you dickhead.”

“hm?”

“i said fuck m-“ roger cuts you off by sheathing himself inside you, barley giving you time to adjust before setting his feverish pace.

you’re a mess of crashing lips, brushing hands and erratically stuttering hips, refusing to match the pace set by the other. you never would’ve thought sex so volatile, so asynchronous and raged fuelled could feel so _fucking good_.

roger buries himself to the hilt with every thrust inside of you, and his fingers drum relentless on your clit.

“jesus christ.” you moan, dropping your head back onto his shoulder.

“enjoying yourself?” he pants, _the cock,_ licking and sucking at your neck, adding to already vast collection of territorial stamps _._

“are you?” you fight his mouth off with your own, torn between needing to be as close to him as possible, and wanting to shove him off. “s’much as you enjoyed my girlfriend?”

roger mutters something unintelligible, but his finger increase their impetus ten fold, thrusts becoming impossibly fast and rough. _beat him at his own game._

you clench around his length and shove your arse back into him, prompting a deeply satisfying moan in reaction.

“god, you’re fucking hot.” you could’ve been fooled it was an insult, given the ferocious growl roger delivers it with.

“and you’re a hot fuck.” you clench around him again.

“ _unfair_.” roger snaps his hips harder. faster. as desperate to make you cum first, to win, as you are him. it’s wrong. it’s _toxic_.

your legs feel fit to collapse, and your abdomen aches with the impending euphoria. when roger brings a hand to grip roughly at your arse, it washes over you —defeat and elation— like a tidal wave.

“god, _roger_.” you cry, because _fuck_ it feels good. the best orgasm you’ve ever had; staining your vision white and forcing your mouth into a desperate _o_.

roger lets out an impassioned grunt at the sight of you coming undone before him, reeling his cum over your walls.

the descent, with you collapsed onto the wall and him pressed against you, brings everything back. you want him away from you.

“get off me.” you grunt, beginning to haphazardly re-cover yourself.

roger pulls out without hesitation. he kneels at your legs and collects the arousal on his fingers, dipping them between his swollen lips.

“fuck.” you whimper. what have you just done. gone and shagged your best mate because you were what? _angry_ at him?

 _something is seriously wrong with you_. you scold yourself, eyes still unable to leave roger.

he eyes your glassy gaze with concern. “you aren’t hurt, are you?”

“no.”

“you sure?”

you sniff. “not physically.”

“ _christ_.” roger brings a hand to his temples.

“i’m going.”

“love, wait.” his anger seems to have evaporated with his high. yours hasn’t.

you shake your head firmly and push through the bathroom door into the steadily filling pub.

“y/n.” roger follows you, reaching for your wrist. “just- _wait_.”

you bite your lip. he looks so bloody _earnest_. “why?”

“stay, please. for a little longer.”

god, it would be easy to oblige. let roger drag you back to the bar and down a few drinks, get sloshed enough to forgive his misdeeds, talk into the wee hours of the morning. but there’s a line with roger, one that lies between people he’d fuck over; dickhead mates and quick shags, and those who are exempt. who he really cares about. to whom his principles actually apply. you’re on the other side, now. he put you there. 

“i can’t.” you stay resolute, ignoring how melancholic roger looks; pouty lips and wide eyes –kicked puppy to the extreme. “bye, rog.” you push through the heavy, wooden pub doors, the sting of the cold air on your blazing skin a welcome distraction. 

roger doesn’t follow you. 

\- - - - - - - - -


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary: roger’s your best mate, but he sure doesn’t fuckin’ act like it
> 
> warnings: smut, angst, bisexual!reader, oral sex (f receiving), swearing, general just not good ideas
> 
> wordcount: 2.6k

if you weren’t in a shitty enough mood already, _john denver_ is blaring when you step into the imperial pub. _christ._ isn’t this supposed to be your happy place?

usually it’s warm, heady embrace comforts you. a safe haven from the stress of classes, a refuge free of professor’s judgmental gazes.

but since last week, the whole place feels _tainted_. you haven’t wanted to return since your clandestine encounter with roger. perhaps that’s a good thing - god knows you spend way too much fucken’ time perched at that bar. at least the sheer awkwardness of what you’ve done, coupled with the anger you still feel for your supposed best mate has allowed you to spend a fraction more time on your studies.

although, the time you would usually spend downing frothies has been replaced more by nail biting, ceiling staring and curse muttering than actual coursework. _oh well_.

“who picks this god awful shit?” a melodic voice pulls you from your thoughts, the man to whom it’s attached slipping himself into the bar stool next to yours.

“someone without your impeccable taste, fred.”

“evidentially,” freddie mumbles, flicking hair out of his face theatrically.

you look down at your hands. usually conversations with freddie flow untappedly. but all you can think as the silence grows thicker is _does he know what happened five feet away from him? does he know what a complete and utter fuckup i am?_

“spoken to roger lately?” you croak out. innocent enough.

freddie bumps his dark brows together, giving you a look that’s equal parts judgmental and compassionate.

“so he told you, then?”

“course he did, darling.”

“and do you think i’m an idiot?”

“can’t say i behave much better myself. i’m not one to be passing judgment.”

you twist your face a little. “ _god_. and what about him? he doesn’t go in your sin bin for what he did?”

“it was just shagging. i’m not saying i think it was a good idea on either of your parts, but i’m not going to banish my dears for indulging.”

_!!!!what the fuck?_

you struggle to stay measured. roger screwed your fucking _girlfriend_. well, your ex girlfriend. _whatever_. and freddie’s not going to give him any grief? “are you fucking serious?”

“what?” freddie looks taken aback.

“roger gets a free pass from the blokes, does he? christ i would expect that from brian, _maybe_. i thought you’d at least be on my side.”

freddie’s taken aback expression turns shrewd. “the further we get into this conversation, the more terrified i am that we’re talking about completely different things.”

“ _i’m_ talking about roger fucking lily a week after we broke up.”

“wanker!” freddie exclaims, earning a stern glance from the bar-keep, some old chap who’s markedly less lively than the night-time workers. “sorry,” he mutters, then turns back to you with a hiss. “the little shit never told me that part.”

you scoff. “but he told you we screwed?”

“sure did.”

“fucking typical.”

“and did you…” freddie waggles his painted fingernails suggestively. “…before or after you found out?”

you drop your head onto the cool mahogany of the bar. “after.”

“probably not the best coping mechanism.”

“really? shame, i had it pegged as one of my favourites.”

“ah, piss off,” freddie smiles forlornly.

“i can’t stop thinking about it, fred. i need him,” you close your eyes as you speak. it’s true, roger hasn’t vacated your mind a single second since last week.

“what?” freddie leans closer to you. “the sex?”

your eyes spring open. “the fight! get your mind out of the gutter, fredrick.”

freddie chuckles. “you’re the one who said you ‘need him’”

“as a friend,” you whack his shoulder. “dirty prick.”

 _although, is freddie really all that wrong?_ sure, your primary focus since the fight has been exactly that: the fight, but what followed hasn’t quite skipped your mind. the opposite, if you’re completely honest.

maybe the memory of being pressed against some grimy bathroom tiles, hot and angry while roger fucked you mercilessly was what sparked your hand to creep towards your knickers the last few nights. and perhaps you felt so fucking _guilty_ and it felt so _wrong_ to be so aroused by what you _know_ is _toxic_ , you had to take a scalding shower to wash _him_ _off you_ afterwards.

“go tell him that,” freddie proposes. you half-forgot he was still there.

you moan. “why should i have to? he’s the one who fucked up. literally.”

“you know rog. he needs a little push sometimes.”

you’re still shaking your head, so freddie takes your hand in his.

“i won’t blame you if you need a break from him. god knows we all do sometimes. i won’t even stop annoying you if you decide that‘s that - you’re done with the prick.

but if you think you can fix it —because i know he _really_ fucked up, but none of us have ever been angels— so if you think it’s mendable, just tell him what you told me. he’ll follow suite.”

freddie’s point is annoyingly logical. he’s right about roger - he’s always needed a little encouragement to make amends. and while he doesn’t deserve it from you, you miss him. you want things back to normal. you’ll take the first step because you know he’ll follow.

“okay.”

——————

when you lift your hand to knock on his door, it feels wrong. you never knock. unless there’s a sock on the knob, you and roger mosy into each other’s rooms like they’re your own.

but before you can make contact, it swings open towards you.

“ _lily?_ ”

her red-rimmed eyes go wide, pink lips parting in shock. “shit, y/n.”

“lil?” comes his voice; lazily familiar from inside the dorm room. “who’s there?”

and there he fucking appears. it feels like a movie unfolding before you. roger’s face mimicking your ex’s as he moves towards the door, her eyes flickering to him, silently saying _what the fuck should we do?_ and you, standing there like a fucking idiot because you thought you could try _repair_ things.

“god,” you moan. you turn back to the hallway, ignoring lily’s stuttering behind you.

you really _don’t fucking care_ what the explanation is. you don’t need to hear her justify why she felt the need to fuck your best friend. _twice, probably._ you just need to be away from them. perhaps down a few shots of dangerously cheap vodka to numb the pounding in your head and find some horny uni dude who looks likes good fuck.

“y/n!” roger’s after you before she is, grabbing your wrist to pull you back to face him. fuck, he looks good - even with dark circles more prominent than yours and a distinct pout on his lips. he looks _good_.

“fuck you. the both of you,” you spit, but it comes out weaker than you mean it to.

roger’s still holding your wrist. you would pull it back if you had the energy. instead, it hangs limp in his hand. “come talk to me.” he pleads.

you flicker your eyes to lily, still standing just outside roger’s door. “why him?” god, you hate how scorned you sound. you want to be _angry_ , not sad.

you expect the usual torrent of _i’m sorry_ ’s and _we were drunk_ ’s, but they don’t come. instead, she says “you’d just broken up with me. i’m not proud of it. but i just wanted to hurt you.”

_fuck, alright then._

“bit twisted, don’t you think?”

all she can give you one of her fleeting stares. the kind that always got her out of mountains of shit with you. now it makes your blood boil, and roger seems to notice.

“i think you should go.” roger murmers over his shoulder. lily nods.

“listen to rog,” she says earnestly as she passes you. _rog_?

“i’ll fucking hit you, lily,” you half growl. it barely feels like an exaggeration. of course, you’d never _really_ lay a hand on her. but with the way she’s acting now; like she knows what’s best for you, calculating and manipulating your most vulnerable points to exploit, fucking _rog_ this and _rog_ that - it feels conceivable.

“ _not that_.” rogers grip on you tightens again, pulling you towards him as lily huffs a _jesus_ and disappears down the hall.

he finally drops your wrist when she’s gone. “come inside?”

you nod with a sniff.

you follow roger into his dorm, the cloying scent of lily’s perfume that still lingers on all your clothes invading every corner. that pisses you off for some reason. more of the _anger_ is back, replacing the sad.

you drop onto roger’s bed and push yourself up and down. “have a nice fuck here, did you?”

“we _didn’t_ ,” roger says sternly.

“where then? the window?”

roger shakes his head, looking more tired and weary by the second. _fucking good_.

“the chair perhaps? that would be tricky. might be alright with your level of experience-“

roger palms his forehead with a groan “will you _stop?”_

“will _you_? here, i’ll make it crystal clear: stop fucking my ex girlfriend!”

“listen to me. we didn’t screw, okay? i asked her here to tell her that you’d found out. to make sure she knew how much we fucked up. that it’s.. you know. it’s _done_.”

you scoff. his argument rings true, somehow, but you’re too fired up to stop now. “that right? you and _lil._ ”

“i have known her for a fair while, y/n. it’s not bloody inconceivable for me to call her _lil_.”

he right about that, you suppose. it doesn’t make you feel any better. you stand up from the bed, still needing to be pissed.

“so you got her to come to your dorm because what? _you felt guilty?_ needed to tell her how much you fucked up?”

roger nods. “pretty much.”

“try this one on for fucking size, rog; _how about telling me instead?_ ”

“i-“ he begins, but you’re not finished.

“you didn’t think i might’ve liked to hear that sentiment? you could’ve apologised to me instead of pissing all your guilt up against _her_.”

“tried that, didn’t i?” roger’s hand slips inside the collar of his shirt. a habit he’s asked you to try and help him break. “and it didn’t end well.”

it takes you off guard that he’d even mention it so outright. you open your mouth, saying nothing.

“i _did_ apologise the other day. you didn’t want to hear it.” red starts to streak his collar bones. you really should tell him to stop.

“you’re doing it again,” you point to his hand.

roger looks down, pulling his hand from his collar with a grimace. “thanks.”

there’s silence for a beat. roger bites his lip. your nails press into your palms. it’s clear you feel the same way; too churned up to let it go, too tired to keep fighting.

“the fuck are we doing?” roger finally mutters.

“i don’t know.” you drop back down onto the bed.

“really fucked up, didn’t i?”

roger kneels next you. his knees are bare in shorts he’d never wear outside his dorm room, and surprisingly tanned for the fairness of his hair. he’s thrown on the denim shirt you and him snagged from the rag trade when freddie wasn’t looking, wanting to avoid another _don’t steal the merchandise_ lecture. you can see the violent streaks of red intruding on the soft skin of his collar bones through the wide open collar.

you just shake your head. “we shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“what?”

you give him a _look_. “we shouldn’t’ve done that, roger,” you repeat.

“ _why?”_ his voice is breathy. _is he serious? why_ shouldn’t the two of you - best mates - have hate-fucked in the middle of a fight?

“what do you mean _why?_ would’ve thought it was fairly self explanatory.”

“i just..” roger’s still knelt next to you, but his hand rests on your knee. the pad of his thumb slides back and forth, back and forth over the plane of smooth skin. “it felt _good_.”

it didn’t feel _good_ , you want to scream. it was epically fucking amazing sex, the hardest you’ve ever come. but it felt toxic. _dirty_. positively hedonistic. it had your legs trembling with leftover euphoria, but your head aching. a migraine no doubt induced by the undeniable clusterfuckery of the whole thing.

but roger’s started pressing kisses to your knee, tentatively making his way up your thigh.

“you’re a prick,” you groan. you should push him off. pull his hands from where they’ve come to rest on your waist.

roger fingers at the hem of your shirt. you nod, despite that voice _you really should listen to more often_ telling you _no_. just leave.

“‘m sorry.” he whispers as he tosses it aside. he’s stood up now. he bends towards the bed, hands braced either side of you. the muttered apologies come again; “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” as he sucks hickey after hickey into the soft skin of your collar bones, your neck, the valley of your breasts.

“i’m sorry,” as you lay back, as roger’s hands move towards the buckle of your belt. as one threads through your hair while the other slips into your shorts.

“i can’t..” you start, but _fuck_ , that feels good. and he’s so talented with his hands. and you _can’t say no_.

if the other day was angry, this is _sad_. the way roger trails one hand along your jaw and drags down your trousers with the other is positively melancholic. passionate, and loaded.

and jesus christ, when he finally tugs your knickers down your legs and situates himself between your legs, his shakey breaths on your bare skin is enough to have you wet and _aching_.

“ _please_ ,” you murmer. you lean back on your hands and tilt your head to look at the ceiling. because you can’t look at roger.

there’s a few new posters on his roof. no doubt put there by brian at roger’s request - there’s no way he could reach himself. if things were simpler you’d tease him about it.

“ _jesus_.” you twist the sheets in your palms as roger runs his tongue along your slick cunt, teasing your clit with the tip.

_it adds up that he’d be a pussy-eating god, somehow._

“fuck, roger. rog, c- _christ_.” he’s slid in a finger, pumping in and out of you in excruciating rhythm with soft nips at your clit. roger pulls away suddenly. his lips are slick with your arousal.

“keep saying my name, angel,” he says.

“ _roger_.” you still don’t look at him.

he bows his head once again, and within seconds he’s got the coil in your abdomen unfurling.

“ _roger,_ ” you cry over and over as the coil whips through you, leaving white, hot pleasure in its path.

roger works you through your orgasm, head dipped to your cunt until every tiny whimper has subsided. then he pushes himself away, folding his arms around his knees and leaving you to tug your shorts and knickers up from your ankles.

“i.. sorry,” he says. he looks even more forlorn than before, and somehow, you feel it. even after being eaten out by an inarguable master of the trade. but the high’s superficial. like last time, it fades quickly. you just feel _wrong_.

and like last time, you want him _away_. you want to be away from his soft sorries and his sad, blue puppy-eyes.

you stand up, shorts still undone and your shirt askew. “you can’t keep saying sorry.”

“i know.”

“that’s it. it won’t happen again.” you open his door.

“ _yeah_.”

he mutters something else, just before you’re out of his dorm.

“hm?”

“tomorrow. will i see you?”

you cross your arms over your chest. “where?”

“the show.”

 _christ_ , you’d completely forgotten about the god damn gig. it’s been planned since weeks ago. some fairly upscale, popular bar freddie managed to book the boys into with his untapped scruples.

“‘course.”

“good. i’ll play better if you’re there.” roger runs a shakey hand through his hair.

you nod. “i’ll see you.”

“bye.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary: roger’s your best mate, but he sure doesn’t fucking act like it.
> 
> warnings: angst, bisexual!reader, swearing, heavy drinking, general just not good ideas
> 
> wordcount: 5k

surveying the crowd outside the club should make you proud. it’s massive compared to any the band has amassed before, and pulsing, pushing, elbows poking this way and that with people straining to reach the front. instead it makes you kind of pissed. a hundred fuckable, screeching girls quite literally lined up for him, and roger still chose to shag your ex girlfriend.

you turn away from the glass panels set behind the bar with a huff, and pace across the wide, empty floor back towards the stage. you’ve discovered, since befriending an up and coming student band, that you love being inside an empty club.

there’s no coke on the sinks of the bathrooms, no hovering cloud of cigarette and spliff smoke and cheap body spray, no suspiciously sticky residue on every surface you touch. everything feels so tenuously clean - like it’s ready and waiting to be sullied by a night of good partying. which you could very much use.

you make your way to the pokey little back stage room where the boys are getting ready. freddie’s bent over in a fluffy robe, touching up his toe nails. roger’s in a matching gown to fred’s, twirling a drum stick over in his fingers and straightening his fringe. brian and john are both fully dressed, rolling their eyes and whining about being late on to stage. the whole scene makes you a little nostalgic.

everything’s changed. everything’s stayed the same. you’ve only come tonight because roger begged. it’s tenuous between the two of you. you hate it - your friendship’s been rocky before, but it’s always been vehement and consumingly intense.

always this vibrant, red-hot thing that you could see with startling clarity amongst the drear of student life. the one thing it’s never been is careful. restrained.

“hey,” says brian, who’s the first to notice you. he takes you by the wrist and pulls you into the room. “have another drink.” he provides you a beer and goes back to badgering roger to _put the fucking straightener down we’re on in a minute._

you drop down onto the cushy couch next to freddie and take a reserved sip. you’d rather not be too pissed if roger’s going to try and talk to you about _things_. the two of you said a loaded hello when you arrived, following which you promptly left to scrounge for free drinks at the not yet open bar.

“hi friedrich,” you say to freddie’s glossy black head in a thick german accent.

“hello darlink,” freddie purrs in husky russian. he sits up to face you.

“excited?” you gesture to the stage door.

“curious.” says freddie, dropping his voice to a whisper. “what’s going on with you and roger? i thought you were going to apologise to him.”

you take another sip of your frothy beer. “haven’t you asked him?” you say.

“no. he’s stroppy lately. best not piss him off before a show.”

you nod and sip. “i went to his dorm like we said. lily was there when i opened the door. he said they were just talking.”

“god, it’s like a soapy.” freddie says.

you fiddle with a gossamer fine thread of the couch’s gaudy golden fringe, dimly aware that freddie’s waiting for you to continue. but you’re conflicted. on the one hand, he really is very helpful. you could use his advice on this one. despite having been in no romantic relationships of his own (that you know of, at least), he’s impressively adept at navigating yours. not that you and roger are in a romantic relationship. or a relationship of any sort. you twist the thread, it snaps in your fist.

on the other hand, the thought of explaining yourself to anyone right now, even helpful, eager, kind-brown-eyes freddie kind of makes you want to be physically sick.

“and we talked. roger and i, not lily. i did talk to her though. or yelled, rather, as she left.”

“i respect that.” freddie says. you blindly search for another lone thread.

“so yeah. we just talked a bit and he asked me if i was coming tonight, and then i left.”

“so you didn’t apologise?” freddie sets his tongs down.

your cheeks heat under your blush. “no shit. i shouldn’t have been apologising to him in the first place. i didn’t do anything” freddie gives you a frantic shut-up-they’ll-hear-you pursed-lip glare and you drop your voice to a hiss.

“but i was going to, and then i got there and he was with her. and as if i was going to say _sorry rog, fucken love you mate_ after that.”

you’re getting angry and hurt all over again - you feel like taking a pair of scissors to that stupid choppy fringe he’s spent the last ten minutes grooming. try pulling the floppy haired, sultry eyed drummer routine after that, _roger_.

“calm your tits, t’was just a question.”

“no, then,” you spit. “i didn’t apologise.”

“i gathered.” freddie says.

you roll your eyes. fred rolls his back and leans over the couch to unplug his hair straighteners, so you poke him in the exposed thigh.

“fuck off, missy,” he barks as his now straight, glossy black head reappears over the arm. “go and poke roger.”

you furrow your brow and open your mouth in instinctive offence.

“all i mean to say,” freddie says, cutting off your indignation rather hastily. “is you really need to tell him all of this.”

your features, lifted by the few previous moments of annoyance, droop back into the place of heady exhaustion they’ve been all week. “i don’t really want to.” you say.

“why?”

“it’s his turn.”

“you two look very cosy and absolutely riveted and i do hate to interrupt, but we’re on in two minutes and forty seconds and you’re still in a fucking bathrobe, fred.” brian stands across the little room, looking less impatiently amused and more blindly panicked than he did a few minutes ago.

“sorry, sorry,” freddie says. he pats your shoulder as he rises from the couch. roger watches from his chair.

“thank you.” brian appears to breath again, although he keeps pacing the length of worn carpet behind the chipped wooden coffee table. you note with distant amusement that it’s barely as tall as his shins.

you feel exposed without freddie by your side. cocooned in your own conversation, you had an excuse not to talk to or look at or acknowledge the general existence of roger. you can feel him not looking at you.

“shall we get on then?” he says, out of frame of the small patch of carpet your eyes are focused upon.

brian raps his fingers on his guitar.

“yes, sorry, sorry,” freddie says. you don’t have to look up to know what he’s changed into - you helped him fish it out of a barrel of old theatre costumes weeks ago.

the hems of the deep red bodice been frayed, and the thing was gaping on him, but he must have taken to it with his sewing machine because it looks beautiful.

“isn’t it stunning? and only cost me a pound, if you’ll believe it. poor dear didn’t know what she had on her hands, i reckon.” freddie cards through the silky pleats lovingly.

“yeah,” brian says, taking freddie’s waist and shepherding him out the door. “marvelous fred.”

roger looks at you fleetingly before following them out. you want to slap all that tense, concerned fleeting-ness off his face. _just talk to me, please._

you get up and reach the door at the same time as john, which results in one of those awkward _after you-oh shit, no you go- okay-ah fuck, sorry-after you_ moments, though you’re a little too worn out to fully commit. you step back definitively to let him pass. he gives you a grateful smile and does his best not to hit you with the neck of his bass. you return it as warmly as you can - you’ve always felt that john’s shy around you.

you wish the boys -who are jumping up and down in the stage’s narrow wing- good luck and climb down to the bar floor.

“fuck, do you like, know the band?” a voice smoothed by alcohol says from your right.

you’re used to gig attendees attempting to befriend you once they see you emerging from backstage. usually, when you’re with other friends, you brush them off. but as you’re alone tonight and hankering for a good distraction, you don’t see the harm in indulging them.

“we’re mates, yeah.” you turn around. the girl who called out to you is accompanied by two others, both dressed in stevie nicks-esque flowing, low cut blouses and stacks of bangles and earrings that chime together when they laugh. the girl herself is wearing a big dark blazer, laced boots, a little skirt with buttons on it and pins all over and, as far as you can tell, no shirt.

she lurches forward and grabs your hand. “you’ve got to come dance at the front with us,” she says, tugging you through the throng and towards the dark lip of the stage.

“only if you’ve got a drink for me,” you say. you can’t resist winking a little. who cares? she’s drunk.

“f’course,” she mutters. out of the notebook sized pocket of her blazer comes a shiny chrome hip flask. “vodka.”

“perfect.” you take a sniff to see if it’s diluted at all - it’s not. you’d planned on keeping your wits about you. but since you arrived, roger hasn’t seemed at all keen on talking to you. fuck it, you’ve waited long enough for him to say his piece.

excellent. after a couple of swings in quick succession, your throat is burning for a chaser. but the bar is all the way back through the crowd, which is at least ten people deep now, and all you’ve got is this strange, hot girl’s vodka. so more of that it is.

“you’re good at drinking,” she says.

you can feel the creases start to smooth over in your head, everything becoming nice and soft and easy. “one of my many talents.” you feel comfortable flirting with her now you’re not sober. less like a babysitter.

she says something else but it’s drowned out by the crowd as freddie walks on stage.

the set is good. great, really, but you’ve heard all the songs a million times by now and essentially memorised freddie’s stage directions. besides, the girl in the blazer and her hip flask of vodka are quite the distraction. her friends must have either gotten lost in the throng or decided to fuck off once they realised her attention was else where, because they’re nowhere to be seen.

“you’re hot,” she says to you during roger’s liar drum solo.

“so’re you,” you say to her, and you turn your back to the stage so you can kiss her. you like to imagine that roger can see you, from his drum kit, snogging this ridiculously attractive chick while simultaneously ignoring him and his stupid solo.

“good kisser,” she mumbles, shoving the flask back to your lips. then she shrieks, because freddie’s doing The Thing where he leans down into the audience during the climax of the song, and he’s right in front of the two of you.

“you’re a fucking icon,” she yells, then promptly flashes her tits at him. (you were right, she wasn’t wearing a shirt under that blazer). freddie balks, then grins, you laugh and spray vodka everywhere, and the girl in the blazer lets out another squeal before covering herself again. freddie manages to keep time and pitch during the whole debacle, which is rather impressive.

the rest of the set may as well be happening underwater. the sound and the pulsing air around the audience rush at you, bending everything, blurring everything.

the girl in the blazer’s flask is empty, but that’s okay, because she attaches herself to your lips instead.

as her hands are under your top, someone jostles the two of you and tells you to “the fuck out of the way if you aren’t even gonna watch”. the girl in the blazer tells him to piss off and he does.

she’s giving you hickies on your neck, and you’re trying to figure out exactly how many drinks you’ve had.

you tug on her braids while you kiss, she whines into your lips, roger crashes his cymbals exceptionally loudly. the girl in the blazer bites your lip in shock and you recoil at the metallic, tart taste of blood.

it’s over. the girl with the blazer is pulling you sideways so you can take her backstage, but you rather feel that your mind has strangely been left back on the main floor.

you can’t hear anything, nothing goes through. she shoves you in front of the security bloke (a very lax term) and even though you don’t remember taking the steps, you’re back in the dinky little green room with the cushy burgundy couches and mustard coloured walls.

“aw, pretty,” you say, heading for the plastic-y golden fringe of the seats. you lie on the carpet below, so it tickles the tip of the your nose and when you squint it looks like pure light.

“hello?” the girl in the blazer says.

“what?”

“i said, is this where the band comes?”

“mm.”

“are you alright?”

“yes.”

“oh, hi there.”

“hi,” then laughter.

“nice tits, by the way.”

“fred!” with slight outrage.

“want a drink?”

“chuck us one.”

“great fucking show.”

“thanks.”

“she good down there?”

“i think so.”

“hey, you alright? love, you good?”

“oh, piss off roger.”

“i’m not roger,” says brian. “i’m brian.”

“oh,” you say. now that you’ve stop staring at the light filtering through the golden fringe, the carpet is starting to itch your shoulder blades.

“are you alright?” brian says. he’s holding a beer in one hand and his guitar in the other.

you squint at him. “you know, you’re quite good on the guitar brian.”

he laughs. “need a hand getting up?”

“seriously,” you say. “you should think about that.”

“will do. come lean on fred?”

you grab his hand and find yourself on your feet again. brian leads you to freddie, who takes your hands in earnest. “thanks for the mid-show vodka shower. kept me going through the second half.”

“what?” you say.

freddie shakes his head, though everyone else laughs. you look around the little gathered circle. john, brian, freddie, the girl in the blazer, roger. fucking _roger_ , chatting her up. thinks he’s hot fucking shit.

“think you’re hot fucking shit?” did you say that?

“scuse me?” says roger. the girl in the blazer looks quite miffed when he turns his attention to you.

“you heard,” you say, because you can’t remember what you said.

“what’s your problem? besides being absolutely piss drunk, i mean. thanks for that by the way.”

you scoff. you’re vaguely aware that the other three? four? how many people are in the room? have nudged each other into silence around rogers loud voice.

“what difference does it make to you?”

“because i-” roger cuts himself off and takes a step closer to you. he lowers his voice a little. you can smells the smokes on him. “because i wanted us to talk tonight. and we can’t, because you’re plastered.”

“talk?” you say, and it must be loudly because roger takes a step back and freddie and brian and john, who had been pretending to have a separate conversation with the girl in the blazer, look around at you. “bullshit! bullshit, roger. you ignored me from the minute i walked in!”

“i was getting ready? i-”

“so, your crowning glory is more important to you than me? we all fucking saw you straightnening- straightenit- strainet-”

“straightening,” brain jumps in with an assist. roger shoots him a glare.

“ _straightening_ ,” you repeat, “your stupid fucking hair for two fucking hours.” you gesture wildly around you, your hand brushing freddie’s chest. he looks at you with concern.

“i wasn’t going to get worked up over this before a show.”

“it must be nice getting to choose when it effects you. i’m always worked up over it, you know. i’m always upset.”

“that’s not what i meant.”

“it’s what you fucking said.”

roger starts to pull the rings off his fingers and shove them aggressively back onto the opposite hand. “you’re impossible right now. i won’t fight with you when you’re drunk.”

“dickhead. you’re making excuses. and i’m not that drunk.”

“yes, you are. john’s holding your arm because you’ve almost fallen over about fifteen bloody times.”

john is indeed holding you steady. you don’t recall almost falling, you didn’t register the feeling of the john touching you.

“and i’m not making excuses. who’s this helping. do you feel like we’re getting somewhere here?” roger continues.

“well where’s there to go, really? i’m angry. i’ll always be angry, drunk or sober.”

“you’ll always be angry no matter what i do?”

“maybe.”

“jesus, well what the fuck _am_ i supposed to do then?”

“maybe start by taking some fucking responsibility.”

roger starts to talk again, his cheeks are red, his knuckles are white, but you’re drunker and angrier and you keep talking anyway.

“no no, let’s be honest, rog. you didn’t want to talk, you wanted to give me another bull shit apology and then maybe have a quick, sad fuck in the toilets.”

“calm down, fred,” brian says to freddie, who audibly gasps.

roger looks at you, then at everyone else, then grabs you by the arm and pulls you from the room.

the girl in the blazer makes a noise as you pass, but freddie pulls her back, and from the doorway you hear him tell her that maybe she should go.

he takes you to the alcove where you watched him crack his knuckles and twiddle his drumsticks before the show. “i’m sorry. i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry. i fucked up,” he says, leant up against the exposed wooden beams.

you drop your head to your chest and groan. roger reaches forward to cup your jaw, rubbing his thumb back and forth over your cheek.

“c’mon. i’ll do anything. what can i do to fix this?” he says.

you look up at him, flushed and sweaty. he looks like he did in the mirror of the dingy bathroom you fucked in just over a week ago. but different, somehow.

last week he looked like roger, who you were angry at. and his eyes were still the same blue, and he was still devastatingly fit, and you’d been livid at him before, so nothing felt too out of place.

now he just looks like roger who you can’t trust anymore.

“nothing,” you say.

he exhales through his teeth. “there’s nothing i can do?”

you want to forgive him. just forgive him, hug him, and next time you fuck up remind him how much he owes you. he’s so willing. he loves you so much. he’d do anything for you. he’d do anything to make it okay.

but you know, really, that you couldn’t. perhaps other friends would be able to work through this. but there’s something about you and roger. it’s not like anyone else, because you’re not _good_ and _nice_. you’re assholes a lot, and you do shitty things, and that’s okay, because you never do them to each other.

you don’t care if he cheats on his girlfriends. he doesn’t care if you snog someone who’s already taken. at some point, you swore to each other, without saying anything, that it didn’t matter what you did. as long as roger never did it to you, and you never did it to him.

but he did. he did it to you. and it wasn’t a girl you’d liked for a week, then moved on. it was _lily_. lily who you loved for a long time. lily your first proper person.

“well maybe you just never should’ve fucking done it,” you say.

roger crinkles his brow, and then looks at you kind of desperately. “what does that mean?”

“i think… i think this is it, rog,” you say, making up your mind right there.

“no it’s not. we’ve gotten through worse than this.” he’s holding you steady. you thought all the thinking might’ve sobered you up a bit. clearly not.

you shake your head softly. “no, we haven’t.”

roger looks exasperatedly to the side. “c’mon. i care about you so much. i love you, yeah?”

“yeah, i know you do,” you say, and his eyes relax a bit. “that’s what’s fucked up with you, roger. you care about me, and you still did that to me anyway.”

“ _that’s what’s fucked up about me?_ ” 

“i cant look at you the same, rog,” you say.

the way his face drops makes you want to cry, and -oh, you are crying. he’s crying too.

“give it time, yeah? i’ll make it up,” he says.

“you won’t.”

“i will,” he says, and reaches to stroke your jaw again.

“i don’t think you can,” you say. then you leave.

xx

the next morning, you wake up to the grinding of freddie’s shoddy coffee machine. fuck, your back hurts. you should’ve learnt by now that the Edifice’s (you’re not quite sure why the boys apartment begun being referred to as the Edifice, or indeed how. your best guess would probably be ironically because it’s fucking tiny and the opposite of imposing, and probably freddie) ‘leather’ couch is the worst spot in the whole place for a good nights sleep.

the vinyl sticks to your bare shoulders as you sit up. “hey freddie.”

“hi love. how are you feeling?”

you get up and pad over to the kitchen counter. “fine, i suppose. my fucking head hurts though.”

freddie snorts. “yeah, i’d hope so,” he says. he pours you a mug of coffee. his machine, lovingly named delilah, churns out the most bitter tasting, metallic flavoured piss you’ve ever tasted, but he’s wholeheartedly attached and won’t hear a word against her. you dump a metric ton of milk and sugar in yours and brace your tastebuds.

“where’re the rest?” you say.

“brian’s sleeping and john’s in the shower.”

“and roger?”

you can see freddie knit his dark brows in delilah’s flecked chrome surface as he wipes her down. “not home yet.”

 _fuck, this coffee really is awful._ “he’s been out all night?”

freddie scrubs delilah harder. “yeah.”

“well fuck!” you say, and freddie drops the cloth with a start. “why couldn’t i have his bed? the bloody couch’s given me scoliosis.”

freddie looks at you as though you’ve tried to chuck delilah out the window. “i didn’t think that would be appropriate.”

“what? why?”

“fuck me, dear. if you don’t remember, i don’t want to have to be the one to tell you,” freddie says.

what did you do? fuck roger, _again_? that’d be classic, wouldn’t it? you remember kissing a girl in a blazer and taking her backstage. a threesome, maybe? it’s not like you and roger haven’t talked about it before.

“i don’t,” you say. “and you’re the only one here, so please, freddie.”

he pushes your mug aside so he can lean on the bench in front of you. you’re glad to see it go, honestly. “you broke up with him.”

“oh piss off.”

“i’m serious.”

“we were never together?”

freddie rolls his big, dark eyes. “you dropped him in a platonic sense. although i don’t know if i would describe the two of you as platonic. whatever you are, you’re not anymore. you told him you couldn’t forgive him.”

you shake your head. “i would remember doing that,” you say. and then you do. you yelled at him in front of everyone, and then you told him he was fucked up irreparably and that that was it.

“remember?” says freddie.

you nod. you clear your throat. “so, um, what happened after that? after i said that to roger.”

freddie shrugs. “you came back in and asked for a glass of water, so i got you one and you spilled it everywhere and then fell asleep. we got a cab back.”

“with roger, fred.”

“i don’t really know. he didn’t come back in. i think he might’ve taken that girl with him. the one in the pretty little plaid skirt.”

you laugh drily. “that’d be right, wouldn’t it.”

“you don’t seem all that worried.”

“we’ve fought like this before.” you shrug.

freddie shakes his head. “the stuff you said… after you and roger left the room-”

you whack his arm. “you were listening?”

“ear pressed to the door, love, but that’s not the point. it was intense. you sounded pretty serious when you said you were done.”

“shit, really?” maybe you should be worried. if roger’s fucked off, maybe he really thinks he’s got no chance of making things up to you.

“yeah. you sounded like you meant it.”

you don’t say anything, but press the heels of your hands to your eyes.

“did you,” says freddie.

“i was three sheets to the wind!”

“yeah, but did you? think properly.”

you close your eyes and try to push yourself back. in the light of day, sitting in the Edifice kitchen with delilah purring and brian snoring a room over, it’s awfully hard to stick by your words. you remember saying them. you don’t remember why.

but maybe drunk you made the decision that sober you would never have the tits for. you were maggoted, that much you know. and everything was hurting you on the inside. he ignored you, that hurt. and then he told you he’d do anything to fix what he’d done, which also hurt.

you close your eyes and push yourself to think back, and what you said rings true.

“roger does care about roger more than he cares about me, doesn’t he?” you say to freddie.

freddie sets his mug down. “i think roger cares about roger more than he cares about anyone.”

you wait for john to come out of the shower so you can hug him goodbye. he looks a little surprised as you embrace him, but returns the gesture warmly regardless. brian’s still asleep, so you kiss him on the cheek and shut the door as softly as you can, before going across the hall into roger and freddie’s bedroom. 

you brush a few ash sprinkles, loose rolling papers and a pair of sunglasses from roger’s bed and sit down. the sheets smell like him, though a little mustier. you like the way the two decorated their space. it looks rather like a inside of a clothes rack at the rag trade, with warmed toned tapestries hanging from the ceiling and an exposed cupboard stuffed with denim and velvet and silk blouses. it’s warm. there are always candles on and teacups everywhere. roger’s dark wood night table is covered in papers filled with his slanted, neat script, durex wrappers and old glasses of water. you pick up his reading glasses and put them on. a copy of dune by frank herbert sticks out from under his pillow. there’s photos tacked up above his bedhead, many of them taken on brian’s camera. where ever roger is, you are as well. you carefully wiggle the pin out of one. roger lies on the carpeted living room floor of the Edifice, propped up feebly by his elbows, with you on top of him. you both wear dopey grins of early stage inebriation, and your faces aren’t quite in focus. whoever was behind the camera moved too early. you put the picture in the pocket of your pants, and roger’s glasses back on his pillow. 

freddie’s taken over the bathroom by the time you open the bedroom door. but that’s okay, you already said goodbye to him. 

you stand outside it for a bit when you’ve left, in the closest patch of sun you can find, looking at the building. every so often, you think you see roger’s blonde head in the distance, approaching, and take a step back. he doesn’t come, though. after a few minutes more, you turn and walk fast around the corner, the stiff corners of the picture in your pocket poking through the fabric of your jeans. you won’t be back. 


End file.
